


Getting Back to Right

by ScoutLover



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Athos Loves Aramis, Athos Needs Aramis, Bromance, Brotherhood, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Epic Friendship, Episode Related, Friendship, Gen, Male Friendship, One Day Athos is Going to Kill Aramis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 00:27:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3957559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The two of them, their friendship, had been out of balance for so long, and their entire world had nearly shattered. Now, it’s time to put things, put <i>them</i>, back to right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Getting Back to Right

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This takes place in the midst of the end of S2x10, _Trial and Punishment_ , just after Tréville, the boys and Constance have gotten Vargas to Louis and exposed Rochefort’s plot, but before the scene in the palace gardens.  
> 2) Let’s talk about _The Kiss_ , shall we? Athos spent all of S2 angry with Aramis, _done_ with Aramis (even by Athos-levels of _DONE_ ), watched him like a hawk and fumed silently whenever Aramis was anywhere _near_ the Queen. But the moment – _the very moment_ – Aramis steps through that door, out of prison and safe, Athos, the least demonstrative man in the history of touch-me-and-you-die humans, is there to greet him _with a kiss_. (No, I have not worn out the back button on my remote to watch that moment a gazillion times, why do you ask?) Also, when Aramis announces he’s leaving, Athos _hugs him goodbye_. Athos _walks up and initiates the hug_. Name another time, in two seasons, when _Athos_ initiates a hug. I’ll wait. Yeah, I may have a thing for the glorious fucked-up mess that is the Athos-Aramis friendship. Even when he wants to stab Aramis through the heart and dump his body in the Seine, Athos loves his idiot brother dearly.

Athos was exhausted.

No, actually, he’d been exhausted _yesterday_ , perhaps even the day before. This was … something so far beyond exhaustion he couldn’t put a name to it.

Dear God, when had he slept last? When had _any_ of them slept last? Really _slept_ , not just stolen an hour or two of rest here or there? He honestly couldn’t remember. Perhaps not since before Constance had come to them to tell them of Rochefort’s assault on the Queen. After that, everything just sort of melded together into an endless string of days spent in the saddle or prowling through the bowels of the palace, staging one frantic rescue after another, fighting, hiding, just trying not to die before they could save the Queen, save the King, save _France_ –

He pushed the thoughts, and the now familiar sense of panic they engendered, away with an effort. No reason for the panic any longer. Rochefort was dead. The King and Queen were safe. France was safe. His _brothers_ were safe. He grabbed at that last thought and let it take root within him, let its truth sweep through him and wash away the fear that had become like a living thing within him. He exhaled unsteadily and bowed his head, raising a shaky hand to rub at his gritty eyes.

They were safe. They were alive. _Aramis_ was alive.

Tonight, _finally_ , he could sleep.

But not just yet.

He lifted his head with an effort and looked around. The garrison was coming back to life, men who’d been scattered and forced into hiding by Rochefort’s threats against the “treacherous” regiment now returning through the gates. Returning _home_. Greeting each other with handshakes, backslaps, fierce hugs and shared wine, as if they’d been apart for weeks or months rather than days. They greeted _him_ by name, more than a few even reaching out to grasp his arm, squeeze his shoulder, and he let them, leaning into and even returning their touches, just now needing the contact more than his habitual detachment.

This place was home, these men were home. And he’d come perilously near losing it all.

Losing _them_.

His gaze tracked across the courtyard to the familiar table where two of his brothers sat. d’Artagnan was still back at the palace – Constance had flatly refused to leave the Queen’s side after all that had happened and d’Artagnan had even more flatly refused to leave _hers_ , so Tréville had assigned him to the royal guard detail. But Porthos and Aramis were here, Aramis receiving and returning the relieved and fervent greetings of their brothers, Porthos watching as if he’d never let the other man out of his sight again. Perhaps he wouldn’t, not for a long while. Perhaps _none_ of them would.

It had been so close a thing …

Before he really knew it, he was striding across the courtyard to the table, unable any longer to remain apart from them. There was still so much to be done, so many messes to clean up, so much work to uncover the true depth and extent of Rochefort’s treason–

 _Tomorrow_ , Tréville had said, sounding every bit as exhausted as Athos felt. _We will take care of that tomorrow. Tonight we rest._

And celebrate what had been saved …

Porthos and Aramis both looked up and smiled as he neared the table, Pothos’ grin big and bright, Aramis’ a bit more … subdued? Wary?

Merciful God, just how much damage _had_ been done?

He sank down onto the bench across from them with a heavy sigh that seemed to issue from the center of his bones and gratefully accepted a cup of wine from Porthos. He drank sparingly from it, though, mindful of his shattered state and knowing it would take precious little of the stuff to put him out just now.

And, for once, getting drunk was _not_ what he wanted.

“I thought you’d still be at the palace with the Captain, puttin’ everything back together,” Porthos said, eyeing him appraisingly and clearly not liking what he saw. Though, to be fair, the big man looked every bit as wrecked as he felt. “’E kick you out?”

A wry smile teased at one corner of Athos’ mouth as he glanced down into his cup. “I think he realized how little use I’d be the third time I nodded off,” he admitted. “So long as I keep moving, I’m fine. But when I stop–” He looked up and arched a brow. “Apparently he feared I’d fall asleep on my feet in front of His Majesty.”

Porthos huffed out a laugh. “Guess that wouldn’t do any of us any good, given ’ow low we’ve sunk in ’is eyes.”

Athos shrugged. “Yes, well, at the moment we’re more popular with him than the Red Guards, so there is that.”

Porthos’ mirth faded, his mouth twisting into a deep, bitter scowl. “Those bastards ’ave a lot to answer for,” he growled. “They should all be in the Châtelet.”

Athos bowed his head and rubbed a hand over his eyes again, his entire body slumping. “The officers – or those who survived – are,” he breathed. “As for the rest–” He winced and reached once more for his cup, taking another small sip. “Tréville and His Majesty were discussing how best to sort that problem when I left.”

“So the Captain is back in the King’s good graces, then?” Aramis asked quietly.

Athos managed a small smile for him. “It’s amazing what saving queen and country can do to restore one’s reputation,” he said wryly. “The King seemed sincerely grateful. He put Tréville in charge of palace security and is even referring to him as ‘captain’ again.”

Aramis heaved a deep breath. “Thank God,” he said with obvious relief. “He never deserved such shameful treatment.”

“Rochefort poisoned the King’s mind,” Athos said harshly, anger flaring hot within him. He tried to tamp it down, but his control was as depleted as the rest of him. Instead, he reached again for his wine, instinctively seeking steadiness there.

Porthos frowned slightly at that and shot him a narrow-eyed look. “When did you eat last?” he asked.

He opened his mouth to answer, but none came to him. He honestly couldn’t remember.

“Yeah, that’s not good,” Porthos sighed, getting to his feet. “You ’aven’t eaten, you ’aven’t slept–”

“None of us has,” he protested.

“Yeah, but the rest of us don’t reach for wine when we can’t think of anything else to do,” Porthos chided gently.

Athos would have protested _that_ , except that he knew it was true. And Porthos and Aramis were long past coddling him where his drinking was concerned. He set his cup back down onto the table and pulled his hand away.

Porthos smiled crookedly. “I’ll find you some food.”

“And I shall try not to drink myself into a stupor before you do,” he said dryly.

Porthos laughed aloud and walked away, clapping him firmly on the shoulder as he passed.

“He’s like a mother hen clucking over all his chicks,” Aramis joked warmly as he watched Porthos leave.

“He’s just grateful we’re all here to cluck over.” He fixed his gaze pointedly on Aramis. “As am I. It was– closer than I care to think about,” he breathed, remembering with a painful clarity the cold terror that had gripped him when the Red Guards had led Aramis away from them and toward the inevitable punishment for his treason.

The world itself had rocked and threatened to break open beneath his feet, and he’d suddenly forgotten how to breathe. Hadn’t really breathed again until Aramis had appeared in that doorway, safe, whole, _alive_. It hadn’t been until that moment that he’d truly realized just how much he loved these men, _needed_ these men. How they’d taken his barren, broken life and made it whole again.

Made _him_ whole again.

“I’m sorry,” Aramis breathed, bowing his head and clasping his hands before him on the table. He seemed to shrink into himself and his shoulders bowed, as if they suddenly held all the weight of the world. Guilt fell upon him like a shroud.

Athos frowned, startled – and worried – by the transformation. “Aramis?” he called softly, wondering what he’d said to cause this. Too often lately, he knew, he’d allowed his anger at – and fear for – the other man to get the better of him, turn his manner sharp and his tongue caustic. They’d begun sparring with words as often as weapons, had begun poking and prodding at each other, and their friendship, as if to see exactly where their limits lay.

“You were right,” Aramis said on a sigh, lifting his head and fixing tired and shadowed dark eyes upon him. “All those times you chided me for my weakness, my foolishness, all those times you warned me what would come of my stupidity– You were right. I very nearly brought ruin upon us all. Lemay died. Marguerite died. The Queen and Constance almost died. The regiment was outlawed, and all of you could have been killed. And God knows what Rochefort had planned for the King or the D–” His voice caught. “The Dauphin,” he managed to rasp. “And all because of me. I would apologize, but–” His voice broke again and he bowed his head, fighting visibly for his composure. “Somehow, ‘I’m sorry’ sounds utterly inadequate,” he whispered tightly.

“It would suffice,” Athos said softly, quickly, the words out before he could stop them. Aramis lifted his head sharply, looking as surprised as he felt, and for a long moment they simply stared at each other, each trying to find his footing on the suddenly uncertain terrain of their friendship.

They’d not had this uncertainty in years, not since the early days, when Aramis had still been recovering from Savoy and he had been new to the regiment, still reeling from the pain of his own bloody past. They’d struggled to find their footing then, too, both trying to put themselves back together, both trying to fit themselves back into a world that had betrayed them, both trying not to damage anyone else with their jagged edges. They’d managed it, slowly, carefully, until, to their own mutual surprise, they’d discovered that, raw and bleeding edges somehow smoothed away, the two of them fit, were better and stronger together than they ever had been separately. The glib and the dour, the romantic and the duty-bound, the irrepressible and the one to whom rigid control was all – they’d fit. They’d worked.

No, they’d _thrived_. Against all odds – and Athos knew the wagers that had been placed on which of them would kill the other first – they had found their footing and begun steadying each other, finding first a friendship and then a brotherhood that had saved them both.

And in a single night in a convent, it had all come undone. They’d lost their footing, lost their balance. He’d been so angry at Aramis, so appalled by the man’s recklessness and fearful of what it might bring down upon them all, that he’d begun lashing out and pulling away, turning back to the coldness and detachment that once had been his surest protection against further hurt.

Except it hadn’t worked. The hurt had come anyway. Nothing, _nothing_ could have protected him, insulated him, from the terror and unspeakable _pain_ he’d felt when he’d been forced to watch Aramis arrested and taken from them, the inevitability of his torture and death written plainly in Rochefort’s victorious expression.

His duty to King and country had flown away in that moment, replaced by his duty to Aramis. He’d known then he would move heaven and earth, or die in the trying, to save his brother.

“All those times you tried to warn me, I should have listened,” Aramis said dully, sounding as tired as Athos felt. And looking it. He was bruised from the Red Guards’ vicious handling of him, the bandages at his wrists covering the abrasions left by the manacles and his struggles against them, the gash in the forearm of his doublet revealing the bandage that covered the slice from Rochefort’s blade. Dark circles, almost bruises themselves, circled his eyes, and those eyes – dark, dulled, filled with shadows – had yet to regain their natural brightness, their familiar spark.

Athos suddenly feared they might have lost Aramis after all, and the fear tasted like ashes in his mouth.

Little knowing what he did, he reached out and covered Aramis’ clasped hands with his own, closing his fingers tightly about his friend’s. “I only ever wanted to protect you,” he said softly, fiercely. “Every time you looked at– at _her_ , you saw only her, while I could see only the ruin and death you were courting. The higher Rochefort climbed, the nearer that ruin and death came, until I was nearly choking on its closeness. Yet I could do nothing to stop it.”

Aramis fixed those unreadable eyes upon him. “You told Tréville you would have shot me back at the convent, had you known then what I would do. Did you mean it?”

Athos frowned and blinked, trying to remember when he’d said that. Two days ago? Three? When they’d gathered in Aramis’ room and the entire truth had finally come out– “I’ve been threatening to shoot you for years,” he said at last. “Yet here you still are.”

Aramis’ lips twitched at that, and Athos was relieved to see even that faint trace of a smile.

“Yes, but I’ve rarely given you more reason,” he said.

Athos snorted softly. “You all give me reason every day. If it’s not Porthos cheating at cards and starting a brawl in some tavern that gets _me_ banned, it’s d’Artagnan stupidly thinking I’m a noble and decent man who deserves saving from my own excesses and darkness–”

“He’s not wrong,” Aramis said quietly, squeezing Athos’ fingers gently. “You really should stop fighting him on that.”

Athos made a sound of disbelief and pulled his hands away, more than a little flustered by Aramis’ words. By these men’s unfailing belief in his worth. He knew only too well what he was, had seen it reflected back in countless cups of wine and empty bottles. And in the despairing faces of these same men as they’d carried him out of one tavern or another or held him while he vomited in an alley.

“Let d’Artagnan – let _us_ – save you,” Aramis pleaded, reaching once more for Athos’ hand. “You are worth it, you know. Infinitely so. Every man here knows it.”

“Then you are all fools,” Athos drawled coolly, drawing back into his shell of detachment. “Your time should be spent on better causes than lost ones. You cannot save me from what I have brought on myself.”

“And yet you saved me,” Aramis pointed out. “I earned those chains, I deserved that prison cell. I brought upon myself the fate Rochefort had in store for me. I would have gone to the wheel and to my death a guilty man, and you knew that better than anyone. Yet you sent _her_ , your own strange angel of mercy, to rescue me. To _save_ me.” Intensity crept into his voice and eyes, and he tightened his fingers about Athos’ wrist. “You have warned me, time and again. You have been angry with me, have despaired of me, have hissed and spat and fumed until I thought your very eyes would bleed from your wrath. And yet, when I finally, _finally_ faced the fate you had warned me of and _knew_ I deserved, _you_ sent _her_ to _save_ me. You – and the others, yes, but _you_ – threw aside everything you knew and believed, and have clung to resolutely when you’ve abandoned faith in _everything_ else, about _duty_ and _honor_ and _right_ to save a seducer and a defamer and a _traitor_ –”

Aramis’ words pierced him like a sword and tore a ragged breath from him. “You cannot for one moment believe,” he rasped strickenly, “that I would ever, _ever_ have left you in that place!” Yet he could see in Aramis’ eyes that he _had_ expected that, and the very thought almost made him sick. “Dear God,” he whispered, staring at Aramis in horror, “just what kind of bastard do you think me?”

Aramis lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. “One who knew the full depths of my sin,” he said softly, sadly, “and would have been entirely justified in leaving me to atone for it. I was guilty of treason.” He shrugged again. “It would have been your duty to see me punished. And we all know what duty means to you.”

The words ignited a white-hot rage in Athos and he shot to his feet with a wordless snarl, visibly startling Aramis. Little caring who saw or what they thought, he stalked around the table to Aramis and grabbed him by the shoulder, twisting long, strong swordsman’s fingers into his doublet and hauling him to his feet. “Goddamn you,” he spat furiously, “come with me!”

All activity in the garrison stopped and Musketeers whipped around to stare as he dragged Aramis toward the stairs. Across the courtyard, Porthos dropped the plate he’d been carrying and immediately started running toward them, anxiety written in his face, but Athos held up his other hand and stopped him with a cold, imperious command.

_“Don’t.”_

Porthos jerked as if he’d been shot, but stopped, dark eyes huge in his face, big hands knotting into fists at his sides. He stayed where he was, though his body strained visibly from the effort.

Countless pairs of eyes watched as Athos hauled a struggling Aramis unceremoniously up the stairs and along the landing toward his room. Every man in the garrison knew that something had occurred between them to knock their friendship off kilter, that some strain, some friction, had arisen between these two that had thrown all the _Inseparables_ off balance. Apparently, whatever it had been was about to come to a head.

And Captain Tréville wasn’t here to rein in two of his most lethal men.

Aramis spat curses and fought against his hold, but Athos never relaxed that merciless grip. He was hurt, _furious_ , more than he’d been since that morning in the convent when he’d caught Aramis in the Queen’s bed. Aramis’ unthinking words to him just now had been a betrayal even worse than that, and shattering evidence of just how _wrong_ things were between them.

The two of them, their friendship, had been out of balance for so long, and their entire world had nearly shattered. Now, it was time to put things, put _them_ , back to right.

In his room, he slammed the door behind them and flung Aramis down onto his bed, looming over him. “How dare you!” he seethed, fixing a burning stare upon the other man and trembling in his outrage. “How fucking _dare_ you!”

Aramis stiffened and sucked in a sharp breath, staring up at him in obvious shock. Athos swore, like any soldier, but was rarely coarse, his childhood education in courtly manners still ingrained too deeply in him. So when he _did_ resort to obscenities, it got everyone’s attention.

Just as it now had Aramis’.

“Do not _speak_ to me of sacrificing someone I love in the name of _doing my duty_!” he spat. For a moment, it wasn’t Aramis’ face he saw before him, but _hers_ , green eyes silently pleading with and damning him as Remi placed the noose around her neck. “Do not _speak_ to me of what duty _means_ to me! _I hanged my wife in the name of my duty, and it very nearly destroyed me!_ ” he shouted in a raw and broken voice, his soul writhing in agony at the memory. “I have thrown away _everything I have ever loved_ in the name of _duty_ and consigned myself to _hell_ for it! How in God’s name do you think I could _ever_ do something like that _again_?”

“Christ, Athos, I’m sorry!” Aramis rasped, rising sharply to his feet and reaching out, grabbing Athos and pulling him to him in a hard, fierce embrace. “I had no right– I’m sorry! Please, _please_ , forgive me!”

Athos gasped and shuddered violently and clutched at Aramis, burying his face in the other man’s shoulder and knotting shaking hands in his doublet. “I don’t care what you deserved,” he whispered harshly, desperately. “I could never have let you die. I would have died myself first!”

Aramis held him tighter still, his own body shaking. “I am not worth such a sacrifice–”

“Shut up!” Athos growled. He pulled away and ran a hand over his face, feeling the wetness of tears beneath his fingers, then reached out to renew his grip on Aramis’ doublet. “I know what it is to lose a brother,” he said in a low and throbbing voice, needing the other man to understand what had driven him. What would _always_ drive him where these men were concerned. “When Thomas died, part of me died with him. I have felt that agony, Aramis, I have known what it is to have my soul torn from me, and I c– I couldn’t bear– to feel it again. I wouldn’t survive it.” He lifted a trembling hand to Aramis’ face, his gaze searching the dark eyes he knew as well as his own. “There is absolutely nothing in me,” he whispered thickly, “that could _ever_ have left you in that place to die. I would have torn down the palace itself to free you, if such had been required. My _dut_ y be damned.”

Aramis had the grace to flinch. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry! I forgot–” He winced and shook his head, then reached up to wrap long fingers tightly around Athos’ wrist. “I should never have said that. It was cruel, and you don’t deserve that. All you’ve ever tried to do is protect me, even from myself.” He frowned and shook his head. “Though I’ll be damned if I know why.”

“Because, you idiot, I need you,” Athos said softly, fondly, wondering when, exactly, _he_ had become the one to put such a truth into words. That had ever been _Aramis’_ role. “You, along with Porthos, saved me and brought me back to life when I would have sworn there was no life left in me. You gave me something to cling to when everything else had been ripped from me. And now d’Artagnan has joined your effort. Whatever I am now, it is only because the three of you have made me your reclamation project. And I fear that to lose even one of you,” he bowed his head and fidgeted with his sword, “would be to lose myself all over again.”

Aramis reached out and laid a hand on Athos’ shoulder. “You are stronger than you know,” he said gently. “And there was always more of you left to save than you believed. Porthos and I would never have wasted our time if we hadn’t believed you worth it. But,” he squeezed Athos’ shoulder firmly, “I promise, I will try harder not to put you at risk in future. I need you, too, you know. We all do.”

Athos huffed out a soft breath. “I cannot imagine for what.”

“Because someone amongst us must be the sensible one,” Aramis said airily, a smile spreading across his face and lighting his eyes. “I am the romantic one, Porthos is the heroic one and d’Artagnan the naive one. Or,” he frowned thoughtfully, “the headstrong one. I haven’t yet decided. But we need a sensible one–”

“You mean a grown up,” Athos muttered, trying not to give in to the smile tugging at his mouth as Aramis’ charm and warmth worked their familiar magic upon him.

“Who will look after us and make certain–”

“You don’t all commit suicide?” He could no longer fight the smile.

Aramis narrowed his eyes and scowled. “You keep interrupting me,” he pointed out primly. “I would expect someone of your upbringing to have better manners.”

He arched a brow. “You _have_ been to court, yes?”

“Hm, point taken. Though usually you have better manners than most of your noble ilk.” He sniffed and lifted his chin, laying a hand against his heart. “I like to think it is my influence upon you.”

“God, spare me,” Athos muttered grimly, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, he will,” Aramis assured him lightly. “After all, I pray for you daily, and we all know I am his favorite.” He clapped Athos on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get back down there. After your little display of temper, Porthos is bound to be worried that we’ve killed each other.”

“Or he’s just taking bets on the outcome,” Athos put in, letting Aramis turn and lead him toward the door, the man’s arm a warm and welcome weight against his back.

Aramis heaved a sigh and shook his head. “Really, Athos, we must work on your dim view of humanity. That’s your brother you are slandering.”

“It’s not slander if it’s true,” he said gruffly.

“Ah, there’s that sweet nature we all know and love!” Aramis opened the door, then turned to grin brightly at him. “Our sullen, sensible leader is back among us, and all is right with the world.” He winked, and stepped out onto the landing.

Athos rolled his eyes again as he followed, but couldn’t help smiling. And as he made his way down the stairs, watching Aramis reassure Porthos with a sweeping bow, he felt both lighter and more grounded than he had in days.

He and Aramis were back on solid ground. All was, indeed, right with his world again.

_The End_


End file.
